He was bending over a table on which he had placed a portable electric lamp, the college rooms being illuminated with both gas and the incandescents. Holding a paper in the glow of the bulb, Sid was examining the document with the aid of a magnifying glass. At the same time he seemed to be comparing other pieces of paper with the one he held.
“Studying?” asked Tom.
“Yes,” replied Sid shortly.
“Something new?” inquired Phil. “I didn’t know you were qualifying for a course in identifying handwriting,” for he saw that the papers Sid was looking at contained writing.
“Do you see this?” asked Sid suddenly, holding up an envelope.
“Why—er—yes,” answered Tom. “It’s addressed to Miss Harrison, and—but—are you going over with a microscope a letter you’ve written to her, to see if it will pass muster? She’s not as particular as that, you old bat.”
“I haven’t been writing to her,” replied Sid coldly. “This is the envelope containing that clipping with my name in it—the report of the gambling raid—I picked up the envelope—that afternoon,” and he seemed struggling with some emotion.
“What about it?” asked Phil, who did not exactly catch the drift.
“This,” answered Sid quickly. “Look at this note,” and he showed them a missive containing some reference to baseball matters. It was signed “Fred Langridge.”
“I got that from Langridge last term,” went on Sid, “and I saved it, for some unknown reason. I’m glad, now, that I did.”